Becoming Immune to Brussels
4 am hurts. A black, dizzying punch that still aches 30 minutes later yomping along the towpath. I am king of an empty world all the way to St. Pancras.
The only demarcation between the dark tunnels of London and the backside of pre-dawn Essex is the scattering of distant sodium fireflies. Thanks to the recent Chunnel fire we crawl below the sea. With its usual sense of appropriateness, iPod shuffle offers up 6 Underground.
The French morning on the other side deliver a dull, metallic grey sky. The landscape a muted palette of shabby brown fields and failing green. Rolling through Belgium, the incremental benefits of more light are offset by pollution poxed concrete and graffiti contagion.
Gare du Nord’s usual aroma of urine seems significantly restrained this morning. I manage to descend and catch the metro with a single gag reflex. By the time I reach Arts Loi/Kunst-Wet I have even adjusted to the carriage’s stereo mix of Flemish in one ear and French in the other. Maybe I am becoming immune to Brussels.
After eight hours of discussion on climate change, I begin the drift from Cathédrale Saints-Michel-et-Gudule back to Zuidstation. Achieving my temporary duration grail of a Belgian edition of Paris Match with 14 pages on Jaques Brel, I am in a state of grace. The cold rain coming down does not want to fall on me. The city’s population of pissant pickpockets disregard me as a mark. I am reacquainted with the fact that the Metro PA plays music by a serenade of snatched Bowie every time my train hits a stop. Sunny-faced children wave at me. For a few minutes I feel as if even Mafya bullets would miss me.
I shop for gifts that could also double as a suicidal diet, filling my bag with Leonidas chocolates, cheese, Ardennes butter, biscuits and beer. Nabbing a French graphic novel called Ghostmoney, I spend the wait for the 18:59 back to London trying to improve my French. ‘La marche s’était arrētée et un entrange silence était tombé … un cri a retenti de láutre cōté de la rue.'
Looking out at the unrelenting black beyond the window, the only sign of crossing the French border is the twitching as my Blackberry shifts from BASE to Orange F. The Eurozone becomes one flesh in the dark. Nationhood reduced to data virtuality, the microwave whispers of sovereignty.
We enter the Chunnel. The soundtrack of Blade Runner folds into me. With nothing to look at but my own reflection in the dark glass, I close my eyes.
The only demarcation between the dark tunnels of London and the backside of pre-dawn Essex is the scattering of distant sodium fireflies. Thanks to the recent Chunnel fire we crawl below the sea. With its usual sense of appropriateness, iPod shuffle offers up 6 Underground.
The French morning on the other side deliver a dull, metallic grey sky. The landscape a muted palette of shabby brown fields and failing green. Rolling through Belgium, the incremental benefits of more light are offset by pollution poxed concrete and graffiti contagion.
Gare du Nord’s usual aroma of urine seems significantly restrained this morning. I manage to descend and catch the metro with a single gag reflex. By the time I reach Arts Loi/Kunst-Wet I have even adjusted to the carriage’s stereo mix of Flemish in one ear and French in the other. Maybe I am becoming immune to Brussels.
After eight hours of discussion on climate change, I begin the drift from Cathédrale Saints-Michel-et-Gudule back to Zuidstation. Achieving my temporary duration grail of a Belgian edition of Paris Match with 14 pages on Jaques Brel, I am in a state of grace. The cold rain coming down does not want to fall on me. The city’s population of pissant pickpockets disregard me as a mark. I am reacquainted with the fact that the Metro PA plays music by a serenade of snatched Bowie every time my train hits a stop. Sunny-faced children wave at me. For a few minutes I feel as if even Mafya bullets would miss me.
I shop for gifts that could also double as a suicidal diet, filling my bag with Leonidas chocolates, cheese, Ardennes butter, biscuits and beer. Nabbing a French graphic novel called Ghostmoney, I spend the wait for the 18:59 back to London trying to improve my French. ‘La marche s’était arrētée et un entrange silence était tombé … un cri a retenti de láutre cōté de la rue.'
Looking out at the unrelenting black beyond the window, the only sign of crossing the French border is the twitching as my Blackberry shifts from BASE to Orange F. The Eurozone becomes one flesh in the dark. Nationhood reduced to data virtuality, the microwave whispers of sovereignty.
We enter the Chunnel. The soundtrack of Blade Runner folds into me. With nothing to look at but my own reflection in the dark glass, I close my eyes.
Labels: Blade Runner, Brussels, Chunnel, Jacques Brel
posted by David at 11:59 PM
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